


How it Happened

by topswearing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 04:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topswearing/pseuds/topswearing
Summary: How did Sherlock and John take the step to become more than just friends? It began with a nightmare...





	How it Happened

John bolted upright out of his slumber, his legs running towards that sound that had woken him before his mind had a chance to catch up. Sherlock was screaming; John had never heard such a terrified sound emitted from anybody in his life. He crashed through Sherlock’s bedroom door and grabbed blindly at the first weapon-worthy object to hand: an antique gas lamp. He raised it above his head whilst his eyes darted around the room, lit only by the streetlight outside the window, for the threat. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, John’s eyes settled on Sherlock. 

Sherlock had stopped screaming. He was tumbling around in his bedclothes as if trying to fend off an attack perpetrated by his duvet. In the dim light, his skin gave off a ghostly sheen and the sweat was running off him, his hair plastered to his head. 

John paused, not knowing what to do next. Clearly, Sherlock was having a nightmare and he could not decide whether to wake him or not. On the one hand, Sherlock was an immensely private individual; one who denied his capacity for emotion. On the other hand, John knew what it was like to be trapped in a nightmare and it choked him to see Sherlock’s suffering. 

Thinking of how humiliated Sherlock would feel to find John witnessing what he would be perceive to be weakness, John made a compromise. He decided that he would return to his own room, but if the screaming began again, he would do something. He lowered the gas lamp from above his head and turned in the direction of the door. He tip-toed in order not to wake Sherlock but just as he was about to place the lamp back where it belonged, he was startled by Sherlock murmuring his name. 

“John”.

John froze in panic trying to figure out how he would explain his presence in Sherlock’s room. Whilst still attempting to concoct a story convincing enough and void of any mention of nightmares, John turned towards the bed. John sighed in relief to see that Sherlock was still sound asleep and sleep-talking rather than speaking directly to him.

“John...Please...I...Not good…”

John furrowed his brow in confusion: what on earth was Sherlock dreaming about? He was strongly tempted to stay and hear more but John shook himself with a reminder about privacy, knowing that Sherlock would not like to be spied upon. He knew that he needed to leave the room as quickly as possible. 

“JOHN! NO!”, Sherlock suddenly bellowed. 

John dropped the gas lamp in alarm, the glass breaking into a hundred pieces. His eyes snapped towards Sherlock who had jumped up out of bed, now awake and looking terrified. 

“It’s only me, Sherlock. Stay calm.”

John winced as he saw the mask, which Sherlock usually wore in his dealing with those such as Anderson, come down and rearrange his face into a haughty glare. 

“What are you doing in my room?” Sherlock demanded. 

John could see Sherlock’s mind racing, making deductions, worrying. 

“I heard a noise and came to check everything was alright. Then I tripped over my own foot on the way out. Like an idiot. And...I...uhm...accidentally fell onto your lamp”, John babbled. He had the urge to swallow loudly but refrained from doing so lest it become a sign of incrimination.

“Interesting.”

“Is it?” John asked warily. 

“Interesting that you feel the need to lie.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Really, John? There are seventeen-no, eighteen, indicators that you are lying.” Without taking a breath he continued, “If I were not in my boxers, maybe I would illuminate you as to what they are. As it is, I would appreciate it greatly if you returned to your room right now; I’ll clear up the glass in the morning.”

“Look, Sherlock…”

“Goodnight”, Sherlock said with a steely air of finality in his voice. 

John took a deep breath and turned to leave, before something inside him snapped and he spun back around again. 

“What were you dreaming about, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped down dramatically onto the bed. 

“Boring”, he muttered into the pillows. 

“It seemed to me to be the opposite of boring. What is so boring that it makes you scream so loudly that I’m surprised Mrs Hudson hasn’t phoned the police?”

No answer. 

“Hmm?”

…  
“Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you bloody ignore me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Impatience welled up in John and he moved towards the bed. As he did so, Sherlock jumped up and pushed past him with a rough shove and stalked out of the room. Despite that, John still saw the wetness in his eyes. 

After a moment frozen in shock, John ran after Sherlock. He turned just in time to see Sherlock’s coat billowing out of the door of their flat. John almost fell down the stairs in his attempt to catch up. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist just as Sherlock’s other hand clasped the door knob.

“Please don’t leave. Let me help you”, John pleaded.

Sherlock tried to yank his wrist from from John’s grasp, but John was too strong. 

“LET ME GO!”, Sherlock commanded. 

“Stay, Sherlock. Please.”

“Please be assured that I don’t want to hurt you, but if you refuse to let go of me this instant, I will not be held culpable for my actions. Final warning. Let me go or I’ll be forced to use physical force.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to see you try”, he challenged. “Army, remember? Don’t be such a bloody drama queen.”

Sherlock’s decision made, he yanked the arm that John was holding above his head, pulling John towards him. In counter-attack, John slammed into his ribs and twisted around to kick the back of Sherlock’s knee so that he buckled to the floor. Before Sherlock could get up off his knees, John pushed his whole body to the floor from behind, pinning both wrists down and weighing him down.

Sherlock wriggled to free himself but only succeeded in turning his body around so that he and John were not facing each other. 

John became absolutely lost in the moment. Looking down at the flushed and vulnerable Sherlock, he stilled as a wave of emotion ran through him. Unconsciously, he moved his face towards Sherlock’s and glanced down at this plump lips before returning to look him in the eye. Sherlock stopped struggling. They stared at each other panting from the physical exertion. Just as John moved to release Sherlock, Sherlock lifted his face and kissed John chastely on the lips. 

John’s heart stopped but he could feel Sherlock’s heart beating wildly. He leant down and kissed Sherlock gently on the side of his neck, beneath his jaw bone. Sherlock moaned helplessly as John inhaled his scent. Their lips met again and this time they did not leave each other until they both became desperate for air.   
John suddenly became aware that Sherlock was shuddering beneath him. They were right next to the draughty front door and Sherlock had neglected to actually dress himself before putting on his coat. However, John could feel the heat radiating from him.

“Are you okay”? he asked gently. 

Sherlock nodded dumbly and John huffed out some air in a scoff.

“Let’s get back upstairs, shall we? Mrs Hudson’ll have a fit if she finds us here like this”.

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied seriously. His eyes were fixed on John as if he was in a trance,

Nevertheless, when John shifted to pull them upright, Sherlock complied and allowed himself to be moved. 

“Come on. Back upstairs.” John did not release his hand from Sherlock’s and guided him back into the flat. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Sherlock pushed John against the wall and initiated a desperate kiss. His hands ran underneath John’s t‐shirt where he focused on stroking halfway down the torso before edging higher and higher. When his hand brushed over one of John’s nipples, John gasped and he felt himself becoming dizzy. With every ounce of willpower, he put his hands against Sherlock’s chest and pushed. 

“Stop.”

John heaved a shaky sigh and took a deep breath to ground himself. Sherlock looked thoroughly debauched; his hair stuck out at odd angles, his lips were swollen and his eyes betrayed and intense vulnerability. 

Sherlock considered John for a moment. He could barely think straight but forced himself to make some deductions. 

“You want this. Your pupils are dilated, your breathing is accelerated, you heart‐rate has increased.” Sherlock eyes darted towards John’s cock which was making its presence known through his boxers. “You want this,” Sherlock repeated with an hypnotic air. Still, he sounded less than totally certain. He paused.

“What have I missed? There’s always something. What is it?”

John pulled himself together and moved out of Sherlock’s reach, he leaned on the arm of the sofa since he could not trust his legs to keep him upright.

“Sherlock, we need to talk about this.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Why? Why must everything be discussed to the nth degree?”

John did not yet feel brave enough to provide a truthful answer as to why he had called a halt to proceedings. Averting his eyes, he said “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

He quickly moved into the kitchen, passing Sherlock who groaned dramatically and thrust himself backward onto the sofa. He covered his eyes with one of his hands and breathed deeply in an effort to not reveal to John how disturbed he was feeling and to try and tamper down his arousal. John watched him whilst the kettle boiled. He did not relish the conversation that was about to happen. In truth, he wanted to avoid it as much as Sherlock did. It needed to happen, however. John was not willing to risk losing Sherlock for what potentially could just be a quick shag or some comfort. 

“Tea’s ready.”

John had not expected Sherlock to come to the kitchen to get it and his mouth curled upwards in amusement when Sherlock did not moved nor acknowledge that he had heard John. John took their mug into the living room. He placed Sherlock’s on the coffee table with a loud thud which jerked Sherlock out of his reverie. 

“There you go”, he said. “Drink.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Great. If you don’t want to drink, you can talk.”

Sherlock covered his eyes with his hand again. “John, we really don’t need to talk. We are two available men who wish to partake in sexual activity. I can’t think of a single thing that needs to be ‘discussed’, as you put it.”

“That’s what this is, then?”, John started tentatively. “Some, erm...sexual activity?”

Sherlock sat up and uncovered his eyes. “Whatever do you mean?”, his eyes were piercing and intense.

John looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. He took a large gulp of tea and opened his mouth to confess he wanted more. Had wanted more since the first day they had met. At the last second, his courage failed him.

“What I mean is…” A wave of tiredness suddenly overwhelmed him and he sighed deeply. “Nothing...I mean nothing.” Sherlock furrowed his brow and focused on John as if he was the most complex puzzle in the world. 

John felt stupid now he had a chance to think about things. Sherlock had never shown any romantic interest in anyone. Ever. Even when Irene was throwing herself at him and they had that intense bond between them. Even when he had Janine on a plate. He was married to his work. John flushed with embarrassment for having thought he could be anything more than a distraction; a way to chase away the remnants of a nightmare. 

He could not bear to be in the same room as Sherlock any longer. John knew he would not be able to bear the look on Sherlock’s face when he inevitably clicked onto what he had been thinking. And it would not be long until he realised. John felt transparent and Sherlock could see through people like nobody else. 

“Look, I’m going to go to bed. We’ll sort this out in the morning”, he said in as cheerful a voice as he could muster. 

Halfway up the stairs to his room, he heard Sherlock utter “Don’t go”, but he pretended not to hear. 

Sherlock remained stock still in the same position as John had left him for a long time. Again and again he ran through what had happened but refused to believe whist his deductions had led him to conclude. A tiny fluttering of hope was welling up inside him and he stamped it down as violently as possible. Still, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever, remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth.

The very idea that John might have wanted more terrified and thrilled Sherlock in equal measure. All this time he had been concentrating on hiding his own feelings, he had never thought to look for anything more than amiability from John. He re‐lived every past interaction with John in his head with a renewed perspective. He cursed himself for not noticing sooner, and, although his usual assuredness had deserted him, he got up determinedly and walked towards John’s bedroom.

John’s door was closed and Sherlock stood outside unsure what to do next. He was bursting with his usual impatience to solve the puzzle once and for all, but he had never found himself in this situation and had no idea how not to drive John away. He had already dealt with the situation ridiculously thus far and he would do anything to salvage things from the damage he had done. As he stood debating whether to break the habit of a lifetime and knock, he heard movement from inside John’s room. 

He stayed frozen to the spot trying to hear whether John was packing; he knew it was a strong possibility. John always ran away from emotion. Suddenly, the door swung open.

“Y’know, traditionally, it’s considered pretty creepy to stand in the dark outside someone’s bedroom.”

Sherlock took a moment to recover. “And what if I were to stand inside the bedroom? What would tradition dictate then”?

He moved into the room.


End file.
